Understudy
by Bohemia86
Summary: REPOST John Watson knew his role; he was the sidekick, the assistant, the conscience. But suddenly he needs to be the cleverest person in the room. John Watson needs to be a hero...Sherlock Holmes' life depends on it. Spoilers to the end of 'The Great Game' and then completely AU from there.
1. Chapter 1

_Blink. Blink. Blink. Blink_

John Watson ran a hand over his face, attempting to clear the soporific haze that the computer cursor was summoning around him. He'd promised himself that he was going to update the blog before he went to bed but as his fingers trailed over his chin, rough with a few days worth of stubble, he began to resign himself to the fact that his body was crying out for some slack.

Despite his physical lethargy the events of the previous weekend were still raging through his mind; being helplessly strapped to a bomb, the threats of James Moriarty, the cacophony as Sherlock had ignited the explosives, and the subsequent rugby tackle that has sent both inhabitants of 221B Baker Street tumbling into the swimming pool. But most of all he was remembering the searing pain he'd felt as his lungs burned under the water, as he had desperately tried to protect himself and his flatmate from the building that had been raining down around them.

John shook his head angrily, trying to clear his thoughts; it was _over_. He snapped the laptop shut and scraped his chair noisily on the kitchen floor as he stood up. Mrs Hudson wasn't going to mind an extra scratch or two on the floor covering; not when Sherlock Holmes was constantly blowing holes in walls or setting furniture on fire.

Speaking of which…

"Sherlock?" John called as he shuffled out of the kitchen, nudging the light switch. "Sherlock?" He frowned as he could neither see nor hear any trace of the other man. The resident Consulting Detective had actually been even more supercilious since he'd managed to escape from the swimming pool with nothing more than a small scratch under his left eye. His scornful comments had been flowing steadily alongside an increase in the amount of noise created by his 'experiments'. Therefore, this silent interlude was causing John to feel rather perturbed.

Just as John talked himself out of sending a text to his flatmate – _yeah, sure John, of course you should text the grown man to make sure he hasn't been murdered by a megalomaniac…(!) – _he caught the sound of a familiar gait striding up the stairs to the flat. Within seconds an extremely smug Sherlock Holmes appeared, hair slightly matted from the spring drizzle and the small, red mark on his cheekbone standing out defiantly against his pale skin. John immediately felt relief wash over him followed promptly by an urge to yell at himself for his irrationally overprotective nature.

To most of the world it looked as if Sherlock Holmes had been completely unaffected by his 'chat' with Moriarty. However, John knew better than to believe that; Sherlock may be an arrogant git who prided himself on being the cleverest person in the room, but even he had been affected by the deranged mind of James Moriarty. John had seen the momentary flicker of betrayal and disbelief in Sherlock's eyes when he'd first appeared at the pool; he had heard the slight waver in the detective's usually confident voice as he had spoken to the maniacal Jim; he had felt the almost imperceptible tremble in Sherlock's fingers as he'd released him from the restraints of the explosive vest. Sherlock had been scared, and that thought terrified John more than anything else. He just wished he was as good as dealing with this terror as Sherlock was. They'd barely mentioned the incident since it took place and that really wasn't helping to clear the air of unease.

"Lestrade sent me a message," Sherlock announced emphatically by way of explanation and greeting as he pulled his gloves and scarf off. "Another delivery driver was found dead in the West End, again no obvious cause of death."

"So?" John prompted as Sherlock gave up on telling his story in favour of taking off his coat and tossing it over the back of his armchair.

"Hmm? Oh," Sherlock continued as he sank into his chair and picked up his violin bow, "well all of the drivers were involved with intercepting packages and selling on any valuable items or documents to a select few contacts up in Staffordshire."

"Obviously…" John arched an eyebrow, having no idea how his flatmate has leaped to this particular conclusion.

"Precisely," Sherlock nodded in agreement, "a perfectly sound arrangement for all involved. The only problem being that one of the buyers had a separate agreement with two of the delivery drivers to ensure that she was given first choice on each haul."

"She?"

"Well of course!"

Sherlock offered no more information on this point so John just let it go – he wasn't really in the mood to press further.

"All I have to do now is work out exactly which poison the killer was using. I have a suspicion that it's going to be something straightforward and over the counter."

"Right. Goodnight Sherlock."

Sherlock looked up as his flatmate headed towards his room. "Wait, you don't want to know how she did it?"

John stilled on the stairs. "No, not really. You can tell me tomorrow."

"John," Sherlock rose to his feet, "is there something wrong?" As usual this question caused him to feel immediately awkward – an emotion that he generally succeeded in avoiding at all costs.

"Of course not," John replied as cheerfully as possibly, "I just really need to get some sleep. Dealing with a sadistic psychopath really takes it out of you."

He had meant for the comment to be light-hearted, an attempt at showing he had completely recovered from being almost killed, however, the change in atmosphere was immediate and tangible.

Sherlock's bright mood evaporated instantly and he once again took a seat in the grey armchair he favoured. He waved a hand airily after a few seconds of silence. "Of course." He opened the police file in his hands and the end of the discussion was clearly signalled.

John had no idea what to say so he trudged slowly up the stairs to his room. As he reached the final step he looked quickly down at Sherlock; he was staring straight ahead, hands locked together under his chin in thought.

John knew his friend wasn't thinking about the delivery driver case; Sherlock was thinking about Moriarty's declaration of destruction, the burning wreckage of the swimming pool, and the maniacal laugh as it had filtered off into the safety of the night.

The same things, in fact, that would no doubt haunt John Watson's dreams for the rest of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

Looking back John couldn't be sure whether it was the smashing of the broken glass or the subsequent whooshing sound that ripped him from the vivid nightmare he'd been experiencing.

He jerked upright as a large thud came from downstairs and immediately scrabbled for the handgun he kept in the drawer next to his bed. His senses shifted into high alert as his fingers curled tightly around the cool metal and he padded silently to the door.

He crept down the stairs, fully aware that this could just be one of Sherlock's weird experiments – it wouldn't be the first time he'd been woken by the sound of chaos. However, a nagging feeling in the back of his mind was pushing him to continue.

He flicked on the light and quickly scanned the living area for threats.

"What took you so long?"

The deep voice took John by surprise and he almost tripped over himself as he whirled around to greet the source; Sherlock was sprawled on the floor with his eyes closed, the fire extinguisher from the kitchen lay discharged next to him.

_This is ridiculous_, John thought, he was not in the mood for his flatmate's antics. He glared at Sherlock as he untangled his gangly limbs and clambered to his feet. _I don't actually have to put up with this_. _Here I am – a grown man – standing in my pyjamas and waving a gun around. And for what?_

"Are you talking to yourself?" Sherlock glanced inquisitively at his friend.

"No," John shook his head, wincing as the dull rumblings of a nasty headache began to take hold. He was _sure_ he hadn't said anything out loud. He avoided the steady gaze of the detective and out of the corner of his eye discovered the source of the breaking glass; a pane from the window was lying in pieces on the carpet next to where Sherlock had been lying. "What the hell?"

"It seems we have an admirer," Sherlock walked over to John and hand ed him a metal box that was wrapped loosely in the charred remains of a rag.

John yelped as he grasped the box, immediately dropping it to the floor where it popped open and released a folded piece of card.

"You could have warned me it was _hot_," John glowered as Sherlock dropped to his knees to inspect the contents of the box.

"I thought that the discharged fire extinguisher would have been an adequate clue," Sherlock replied, already sounding distracted as he unfolded the card. The frown lines on his forehead deepened immediately as he took in the illustration; Suddenly his eyes widened and he jumped to his feet.

"What?" John asked in concern as his friend began to look out of the window into the darkened Baker Street below. "What is it?"

Sherlock wordlessly handed the paper to John, not tearing his eyes from the street below for even a split-second.

"I don't understand what I'm looking at," John shook his head after a long momen t. "What's this supposed to be a picture of?"

"It's Dali's _Sacred Heart_," Sherlock finally turned away from the window, plucked the card from John's grasp and lay down on the couch. "He drew it in 1929 and showed it in Paris. His father disinherited him over it."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"It's the _Sacred Heart_, John," Sherlock threw a disdainful look at his flatmate as he watched him sit down in what had been silently designated 'his' chair. "It depicts the burning heart of Jesus Christ."

Sherlock could see things clicking into place behind John's eyes as he began to understand the significance; his lips parted slightly and he began to blink more rapidly. Oh yes, John Watson had understood.

"I'll burn the heart out of you." John spoke so softly that Sherlock almost missed it.

Silence stretched through 221B, as it had done so often since they'd first heard Moriarty utter that same phrase.

Sherlock was, unusually, the first to break the stillness. "You should get some sleep."

"But w-" John trailed off in surprise as Sherlock rose from the couch and strode towards his bedroom without another word. He flinched slightly as the door was slammed shut.

John's head was now beginning to throb and he thought longingly of his pillow upstairs. He silently cursed 'normal' people everywhere as he stood up and headed for the couch instead of the stairs, dragging the cushion from his armchair behind him.

"Get some sleep," John mumbled in a mocking impression of Sherlock as he settled down on the couch, plumping the pillow under his head. "Sure." He held his handgun tightly in his right hand and laid it across his chest. He wouldn't be sleeping tonight – not when Moriarty, or at least someone working for him, had been so close.

There were no sounds coming from Sherlock's room, but John knew full well that his flatmate wouldn't be sleeping either.

His su spicions were confirmed a split second later as Sherlock's door burst open in response to John's phone ringing in the kitchen.

John, who felt as surprised as Sherlock looked, hurried past his friend and grabbed the phone; He held it out in front of him so that Sherlock could also see _Blocked Number_ flashing on the screen.

Sherlock nodded ever so slightly and John brought the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" He forced himself to keep his voice steady, steeling himself for a reply as he lowered the phone and switched the call to speakerphone.

"Ah, Johnny Boy," came a sickeningly cheerful response. "And I suppose Sherlock can hear me as well. Hello!"

"What do you want?" John asked, his stomach churning as the lilting tones of Jim Moriarty filled the flat.

"Now, now, Johnny Boy, where are your manners?" Jim was practically giggling.

"What do you want?" Sherlock repeated John's words, enunciating each syllable with complete control ove r his voice; he would not show any weakness now.

"Oh Sherlock," Jim tutted, "if I'd wanted to talk to you I would have called your phone. I want to talk to my friend John Watson, so Johnny be a good boy and put that phone up to your ear and switch the speaker off so the nasty detective can't keep interrupting us."

John made no move to change the position of the phone.

"Oh come on, John," Jim laughed again, "it's in your best interest to do what I say. Sherlock's too. Trust me, in a minute you'll look back on this and wonder how you possibly could have wasted precious seconds. The guilt will probably eat away at you for the rest of your life."

Something about Moriarty's tone caused the hairs on the back of John's neck to stand up. With a quick glance to a puzzled looking Sherlock he put the phone back up to his ear. "What are you talking about?"

"Smoking, Doctor Watson, is a terrible habit," Jim replied, all humour suddenly gone from his voice, " don't you think? I'm so glad that our dear friend Sherlock Holmes has been trying so hard with those nicotine patches."

"What are you trying to say?"

"Well it's just that he gave me such an easy opportunity."

"Opportunity?" John couldn't explain the sudden feeling of dread that knotted his stomach as he looked over at his friend.

Sherlock stared at his flatmate as he watched all colour drain from his face. He reached for the phone but he was swatted away.

"_What _opportunity?" John asked. "Answer me damn it!"

"The opportunity…"Jim paused for a long moment. "No, the _perfect _opportunity… to poison him."


	3. Chapter 3

John was sure that his heart had stopped momentarily as Moriarty's juvenile laughter filled his ears. For a second he couldn't move, couldn't _think_; he could only stare at Sherlock with mounting horror.

Sherlock. _Poisoned_.

John flew into action as his medical experience kicked in, not even noticing that he dropped the phone as he lunged towards his flatmate. Sherlock jerked backwards in surprise as John grabbed his left sleeve and rolled it up to reveal a solitary nicotine patch.

"Oh Christ." John covered his mouth with a fist. His heart was hammering in his chest as he reached down to pick up his phone with trembling fingers.

"John, what is it?" Sherlock looked between his arm and the blanching doctor standing before him.

"Tell me what you've done." John's voice was dangerously low.

"Oh there's plenty of time for that, _Doctor_ Watson," Moriarty growled. "Well…_some _time. Why do n't I give you two a couple of moments to discuss your limited future together? Sherlock's probably _dying_ to know what's going on."

"Wait!" John shouted, but the line went dead. His eyes snapped towards Sherlock, who was leaning against the kitchen table as he stared at the patch on his arm. "Sherlock we've go to g-"

"Poison?" Sherlock lifted his head as he cut off John to voice the question he already knew the answer to.

John nodded mutely. A voice was yelling at him to move, but he found he couldn't.

Sherlock rand his hand across his chin thoughtfully for a long moment; His eyes darted from side to side as he assessed his current state of health. _Heart rate – slightly elevated, as only to be expected. Breathing – normal. Lethargy – none. Nausea – again, none. No rash, no headache, no cramps._Normal. He traced his fingers of the patch on his arm, mind whirring as he debated whether or not to pull it off. He frowned as he chose to leave it be, then without warning he crossed into the living area and shrugged on his coat

John was finally released from the inertia that had been holding him in place in the kitchen. He stuffed the phone into his cardigan pocket and trailed after the detective who was striding down the stairs.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm going to Barts," Sherlock replied without stopping.

"You can't go stomping around London! He said you were _dying_ Sherlock!" John was aghast that Sherlock was behaving as if this was a perfectly normal case. He didn't have time to think about the fact he'd just linked the words 'Sherlock' and 'normal' together.

Sherlock gave an almost undetectable flinch as John's voice rose. His hand stilled over the doorknob and he finally turned to face his friend. John's face was a myriad of emotion; concern, fear, anger and disbelief were coursing over his features as his brain processed the situation.

"You need to get to a hospital. _Now_."

"John, do I look as if I have been poisoned?" The calm nature of Sherlock's tone was beginning to rile John.

"No, but he wouldn't have said you were if-" John broke off as his thoughts caught up with his mouth. "You think he's bluffing?"

"If I have indeed been poisoned, John, then I will visit the necessary medical practitioner." Sherlock paused in the hallway to securely fasten his scarf around his neck, "But I would like to know exactly what we're dealing with before I offer myself up to the NHS. Your medical expertise would be useful to me."

John was quick to notice that Sherlock hadn't actually answered his question. A few seconds passed as he debated his options. He reached for his coat, which had been hanging at the end of the stairs, and wordlessly gestured for Sherlock to open the door. He was never going to be able to convince Sherlock to stay; the best he could do was make sure he didn't leav e his sight.

Sherlock simply nodded in return.

"Wait," John reached out to grab Sherlock's arm. "Can you honestly tell me that you're not scared?"

"Fear only inhibits progress, John," Sherlock shrugged as he stretched out his fingers in his gloves, removing his arm from John's grip.. "It serves no other purpose."

"It reminds you that you're human," John scoffed. "That you're not infallible."

"Exactly," Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock I…" John's words were lost once more to an inability to comprehend the situation.

The silence in the hall was pierced by a shrill ringing emanating from John's cardigan.

_Number blocked._

"John, my dear. Did you enjoy telling your owner that he's going to die?" Moriarty cooed as John answered the phone on speaker with a quick glance at Sherlock. "I'm sure you're ever so _concerned_ about him."

"What is it that you want?" John spat into the phone, masking the tremor in his voice as well as he could. "If you just wanted to kill Sherlock-" He had to stop for a second to recollect his thoughts. "If you just wanted to kill him you would've done it already – you said you were saving it up for something special."

"I'm impressed, Johnny Boy," Jim was mocking him. "Nice deduction there – clearly Sherlock's been rubbing off on you. You're right – this isn't about killing Sherlock. Oh don't get me wrong, there's still a fairly large possibility that he'll be dead by tomorrow night, but that's entirely up to you."

"I don't understand."

"Ooh, this is my favourite part," Jim crowed, "the _big reveal_! Listen carefully, _both of you_, because I can only be bothered saying this once. Sherlock has been exposed to a rather nifty little poison – I'm not going to tell you which one, of course. Over the next twenty-four hours the drug will start to take effect and he'll experience some quite fun symptoms. Then vital organs will begin shutting down, eventually resulting in my favourite outcome of them all; _Death_."

John had been staring at Sherlock the whole time Jim had been speaking. The younger man's face had begun to distort with anger and he looked as if he was about to start shouting against his better judgement. John lightly tapped him on the arm and gave a slight shake of his head – now was not the time for Sherlock to start playing into Moriarty's hands.

"Sooooo," Jim was speaking again, using that awfully childish, yet spine-chilling falsetto voice, "this wouldn't be fair if I didn't give you a chance to save Sherlock's life, would it, John?"

John remained silent.

"Would it?" Jim screamed angrily and John almost dropped the phone in surprise.

"No," John replied quietly, "it wouldn't." He hated playing into this man's hands, but he was too worried about the consequences to put up any resistance now.

"Right answer," Jim was speaking softly once more. "As long as you do exactly as I tell you, John, you might be able to avoid any unpleasant outcomes. So here are the rules. Firstly, if Sherlock takes even _one_ step outside of this door dear Mrs Hudson is going to end up with a hole in her head."

John's stomach turned over at the thought of anything happening to their landlady and he clenched his fists.

"Enough!" Sherlock yelled and tried to pull the phone from John's grasp.

"Temper, temper," Jim laughed. "Sherlock, I can only speak to one person at a time, so unless you'd like me to shoot Johnny here so you can have your turn, I'd advise you to keep quiet."

pSherlock remained silent, but John could see the effort it was taking.

"Good boy. Now, John, where was I? Oh. Secondly, no police officers or medical workers are allowed in the house. If Sherlock takes a funny turn, John, you're going to be the only one to save him," Jim continued in a sing-song voice. "I'm going to set you some little puzzles, John, I'm sure you remember the kind of games I like to play. Sherlock will probably be quite useful for the first couple…but then he's going to have to concentrate on other things. Like, staying alive." Jim was cackling. "Are you still there, Sherlock? I'll let you talk now.

Sherlock's lip curled in a sneer and John felt it was necessary to step in.

"What do you want me to do?" the doctor asked, trying to ignore how wide-eyed Sherlock had become.

"No rush, Johnny Boy," Jim yawned. "I'm having some instructions sent over to you. Follow them to the letter and this might be the making of you."

"Why are you doing this?" John _had_ to ask the question, even though he had a nagging suspicion he knew what the answer.

"I'm bored."


	4. Chapter 4

"No," Sherlock grumbled in frustration as he retracted his head from under the sink. He jumped to his feet and began opening cupboard doors one after another. Each time his head would vanish for a moment, then reappear eliciting the same negative response. "No."

John flinched as his flatmate slammed the final cupboard. He momentarily paused his habitual pacing back and forth between the windows to sigh at Sherlock "Just…what are you looking for?"

Sherlock ignored John's aggravated tone. "Microscope." He paused and looked around. "Think, think, think." He closed his eyes and focused.

John watched him carefully for a long moment, astonishment gracing his features. It had been twenty minutes since Moriarty had ended the call; since then Sherlock had been stomping around the flat as if this was any other case. "You're really not fazed by this are you?"

"I believe we've already covered that. Now, shut up I need to think," Sherlo ck replied, barely pausing for breath. Suddenly his eyes snapped open and a ghost of smile twitched at the corner of his lips. "Mrs Hudson!"

Sherlock turned on his heel and bolted downstairs.

"Sher-" John shook his head as he raced after him. "Sherlock!"

"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock yelled as he approached his landlady's door.

"Sherlock, dear, what's wrong?" A very surprised dressing gown-wearing Mrs Hudson opened her door and her tenant immediately pushed passed her. "Sherlock!"

"I'm really very sorry, Mrs Hudson," John tried to placate his neighbour with a weak smile as he remained in the hallway. "Sherlock's just lost something."

"That's alright, dear," she cringed slightly as a faint crashing sound came from within her home. "Are you two off out?" She gestured to John's coat; he was still wearing it over his pyjamas.

"No, no, we're not," John shook his head, taking the opportunity for a swift, anxious glance towards the front door.

"Do you think he'll be long?" Mrs Hudson asked, wrapping her robe around herself. "It's just that it's almost midnight and there's some little china cats coming up on QVC; I think they're awful, but my sister would love one for a birthday present. Oh, look he's back."

"Goodnight, Mrs Hudson," Sherlock was staring at the microscope he held in his hands as he headed back upstairs.

"Okay." John clapped his hands together and momentarily allowed himself to dwell on the absurdity of the situation. "Well good luck with the cats. Good night, Mrs Hudson."

"Good night, dear," Mrs Hudson smiled. "Try and stay out of trouble."

John rested his head on the wall momentarily as his landlady closed her door. He looked at his watch and sighed. His body was begging him for rest, but his mind was still whirring frantically. Sherlock didn't seem to be worrying so John felt it necessary to do so for the both of them.

A shuffling sound jerked him back to reality a s an envelope was posted through the front door of 221B.

John sprinted to the envelope, picking it up quickly before swinging open the door and dashing down to the pavement. He looked wildly up and down the street; nothing seemed to be out of place. With one last fleeting glance up the road he sighed and hurried back inside.

He was tearing the envelope open as he ran up the stairs to the flat. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, staring through the eyepiece of the microscope as he adjusted the lens to focus on the nicotine patch he'd peeled from his arm. "I take it we've received another note."

John extracted a small piece of card from the envelope and his eyes quickly traced the neat handwriting:

_Blackwall Tunnel – North Ventilation Towers 1:00_

He turned the card over but found no other instruction or clue. He looked up to hand the Sherlock the card but stopped when he saw him. Sherlock wordlessly leaned back in his chair, a frown creasing his features.

John was afraid to ask. "Have you found something?"

Sherlock didn't reply immediately and John almost asked him again.

"It's definitely been tampered with," Sherlock's face showed no emotion. "It's very subtle, very _clever_."

There it was again, John thought; just a hint of the fascination that Sherlock held for the mind of Jim Moriarty.

"Show me the note." Sherlock held his hand out, looking once more through the eyepiece of the microscope.

"The note? Sherlock, forget about the damn note for a second," John ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

Sherlock finally made eye contact with his flatmate for the first time since Moriarty had hung up on them. John was clearly stressed; a vein was throbbing slig htly in his temple, his breathing was uneven and his pupils were dilated.

"Sherlock?" John's tone was almost pleading. All he wanted was some kind of reassurance that Sherlock was taking this seriously.

"I'm not sure what you'd like me to say, John?" Sherlock shook his head. "We must treat this as any other case."

"But it's not just any other case," John fought to keep his voice level. There was no point flying off the handle at his friend.

"I fail to see what is different here than the last time."

"Sherlock!" John couldn't hide his exasperation any longer.

"Enough, John," Sherlock bellowed and the doctor quieted. "If I've been poisoned then there is nothing that I can do about it; that will be up to you. However, you are holding a puzzle in your hand; solving it is something that I am entirely capable of doing. Under the sink you'll find a green box of assorted medical supplies; I need you to take some blood samples."

John nodded si lently. He handed the card to Sherlock and went to retrieve the box.

"Where's the rest of it?" Sherlock was turning the card over in puzzlement.

"There isn't anything else," John plucked a needle, some vacuum tubes and some antiseptic from the box. "Just a place and time."

"But there has to be," Sherlock was agitated as he retrieved the envelope from the floor. He inspected it carefully but found nothing else written anywhere. "Oh very clever."

"What?" John asked as he gestured for Sherlock to sit down. "Roll up your sleeve."

"He's separating us," Sherlock frowned as John applied the antiseptic. "He's sending you to an isolated place on the other side of London."

John winced slightly as he inserted the needle into Sherlock's arm and filled the first tube.

"You will have to be my eyes, John," Sherlock looked at the doctor in complete seriousness. "If I can't see a victim or a crime scene it's going to make it more difficult.

Joh n only nodded as he took the final sample, removed the needle and applied cotton wool to the tiny pinprick that was visible on his friend's arm. He didn't want to think about the possibility of attempting to be Sherlock Holmes.

"Will you be okay here?" John asked.

Sherlock almost scoffed, but catching the earnest look on John's face he moderated his response. "Of course. He's not going to spoil his fun."

"I'll take these to Barts on the way," John carefully wrapped the tubes in a tea towel. "I should be able to rush them through a mass spectrometry if I call in some favours." He glanced at his watch. "I'd better go."

Sherlock nodded, standing and retrieving John's Browning from the coffee table. "Try not to get yourself killed," he handed the gun to John. "I'd hate to have to find another blogger." A ghost of a smile fluttered over his mouth for an instant.

John understood. "I'll see you later."

Without another word he left the flat and ma de his way out to Baker Street. His stomach was twisting in knots and he could feel his heart hammering away again in his chest.

After a couple of minutes of standing in the cold he managed to flag down a taxi.

As the taxi pulled away John's phone chirped in his pocket. With a sense of mounting dread he pulled it from his coat and looked at the screen.

He grimaced as he read the words:

.

You're still wearing your pyjamas.

SH


	5. Chapter 5

John shivered in the damp night air, plunging his hands into the depths of his pockets to warm them as he felt the familiar creaking, sensation in his left shoulder begin to surface. He glanced around at his surroundings; the lights at the base of the cooling towers bathed his face in an unearthly glow. He could hear traffic hurrying through the Blackwall Tunnel; civilisation was only a few hundred metres away, yet John felt completely isolated.

"Heartbreaking, really." The affected, high-pitched tones of Jim Moriarty caused John to whirl around in surprise. The 'consulting criminal' was walking towards him, a smug smile turning up one corner of his mouth. "Poor John Watson. All alone in the world."

John growled and made a move towards the other man.

"Hold it there, Johnny boy," Moriarty beamed as a familiar pinprick of red light flickered on John's chest. "Don't get all heroic too early on; it's going to be a long night."

John ca me to an immediate halt and grimaced at the memory that surfaced against his will.

"Very good," Jim waved an arm almost imperceptibly and immediately the red light disappeared.

John was under no illusion that this meant he was any safer so returned his hands to his pockets and waited for Jim to make his first move.

"I do _hate_ resorting to such needless executions. They're just so…_dull_." Moriarty sauntered towards John, the cocky smile permanently etched onto his face. He stared at John in silence, eyes flashing with anticipation of the game ahead.

"Why am I here?" John asked after a long moment of silence.

"Well…" he paused dramatically and rocked back on his heels, "mostly it's because you weren't very cooperative last time we met."

"Well strapping a bomb to someone can make them a little over-sensitive," John valiantly held back a slight quaver in his voice.

Moriarty threw his head back with a loud g uffaw and John winced as the grotesque sound echoed off the concrete structure behind him.

"You're funny," Moriarty suddenly fixed John with a cold glare, completely conflicting his choice of phrase. "It's going to be such a shame when I have to kill you."

John's phone chirped in his pocket and he momentarily dared to hope that Moriarty hadn't heard.

"Oh, don't mind me," Jim smirked again, "have a look at your phone. If it's Sherlock, you will send my regards, won't you?"

John made no move to take the phone out. "I'll check it later, thanks."

"But it could be Sherlock," Moriarty opened his eyes wide in a parody of concern. "He could be in trouble! Maybe that poison's working just a little bit faster than I thought it would."

John took another step towards Moriarty and immediately the red light was back. "What the hell do you want me to do? Tell me right now, or I swear to God I'll-"

"You'll _what_, John? Hmm?" Moriarty's voice was suddenly dangerously low. "Kill me?"

John forced himself to control the urge to pull out his gun. If he shot Moriarty, the sniper would execute him immediately. Sherlock would be dead before anybody even knew what had happened.

"Play the game, John," Moriarty shrugged as he watched the doctor weigh up his options. "You never know…you might do quite well." He reached into his pocket and retrieved a golden envelope, before holding it out for John to grasp. "And the winner is…"

John opened the envelope and read the words on the card:

176 Adleborough Gardens. Thirty minutes.

"An address?" John spat the words out. "You got me all the way out here to give me an address on a card?"

"I thought people liked getting cards," Moriarty bit his lip. "They're much more personal."

"You're wasting my time," John growled, unable to stop the anger that was simmering once more.

"I think you'll find I'm wasting _Sherlock's time." Moriarty yawned loudly. "The police will already be there, John. You better go help them while you've still got Sherlock around. Thirty minutes. Let's see how much you've learned, shall we?"_

John watched in fury as Moriarty strolled casually away from him, waving a goodbye over his head as he disappeared into the shadows.

John waited until the red light disappeared from his chest before pulling the phone out of his pocket. His heart thudded when he saw that the message was indeed from Sherlock.

.

Barts called. Samples stolen.

SH

.

A sound of utter dismay burst from John's lips as he suddenly exploded into action. He began racing towards the main road, waving his arms frantically in search of a taxi.

If Sherlock's blood samples had been stolen from the lab they would have no way of discovering which poison Moriarty had used. If he went back to Baker Street to take another sample now then he would miss the deadline at Ad leborough Gardens. But if he didn't find out about the poison then Sherlock was a dead man walking.

John yelled in frustration as yet another black cab raced by without stopping. A sudden thought struck him and he dialled Lestrade's number.

"I need your help," John spoke frantically as the Inspector answered.

**ooOoo **

Lestrade listened to John's story with an intensifying horror as they sped through the quiet streets of London towards Adleborough Gardens.

"Can't we just send someone to Baker Street to get another sample from Sherlock?" Lestrade already knew the answer, but he didn't know what else to say.

"Not unless you want to be responsible for his murder," John grimaced as his words caused an ice-cold knot to form once more in his stomach.

The two men remained silent for a few minutes as they approached Adleborough Gardens. Police officers were already swarming in and out of a large, well-kept house at the end of the crescent.

"What's so unusual about this one?" John asked as they climbed out of the car and walked toward the house.

"Nothing," Lestrade shook his head, ducking under the police tape. "It looks like a straight-forward interrupted burglary that turned violent. Ian Lincoln, aged forty-three, was alone at home. His wife, Geri, found him an hour ago when she returned from a night out with friends."

John felt his stomach twist as he looked at the man lying on the ground in front of him, crimson blood forming a halo around him. A cricket bat lay next to him; presumably this was the weapon that had caused the back of the man's skull to resemble a deflated football.

John carefully knelt next to the body. _Cause of death? Obviously, severe head trauma. Signs of a struggle? Bruises on left wrist and grazes on knuckles. Time of death? No more than a couple of hours. What's wrong with this picture? What's here that nobody's supposed to see? Think, think, think._

"Where's the Freak?" Sally Donovan's voice usually grated on John's nerves, but right now it was the final straw.

"Can you shut up?" he barked, jumping to his feet.

Sally gave him a look of disgust and left the room.

He looked at his watch and realised that he only had ten minutes left before the inevitable phone call from Moriarty.

He pulled out his phone and dialled Sherlock's number. _Come on, come on…_

Lestrade watched as John's face paled. "What?"

"He's not answering."


	6. Chapter 6

"Christ, Sherlock," John exhaled in relief as his call was finally answered, "what the _hell_ have you been doing? I've called you four times."

"Yes," came Sherlock's bored response, "I noticed. It was dreadfully bothersome."

John could only make an exasperated noise in response. Was there really no end to the detective's ability to aggravate everyone he spoke to?

"Anyway," Sherlock continued before John recovered enough to start berating him, "I'm guessing from the delay between my message and you calling back you've been sent somewhere else. Tell me what you can see."

"Sherlock, what happened to the blood samples?" John could hear his voice straining at the edges as he willed himself not to admonish his flatmate.

"What time limit do we have?" Sherlock ignored the question. "I assume the rules haven't changed since last time."

Knowing that he was only going to waste precious time by pursuing his current line of questioning, John returned to focussing on the immediate problem in hand. "There's about six minutes left."

"Plenty of time. Tell me about the victim; not just what Lestrade's told you, I need you to tell me _everything._"

John frowned. "How do you know Lestr-"

"I can hear his shoes squeaking in the background." Sherlock swatted the question away. "Now, focus John."

John couldn't resist rolling his eyes as he knelt next to the body again. "Okay, the victim's name is Ian Lincoln, aged forty-three, he lived at 176 Adleborough Gardens with his wife, Geri; she's the one who found him when she returned from a night out with friends. It looks like a burglary gone wrong – he took a cricket bat to the skull."

"What else?"

"Slight abrasions to knuckles and he's got some bruises on his left wrist."

"When you've finished relaying all of the obvious facts that even _Anderson_ could have spotted," Sherlock huffed in response , "perhaps you could tell me something _useful_."

John released a frustrated puff of air – in his mind he could just see Sherlock pacing around the flat in annoyance. "He worked in the City; some kind of management consultant. Big house, Maserati on the drive and a Breitling you could see from space. Oh…"

"Oh indeed!" There was an element of glee beginning to appear in Sherlock's tone.

John turned to Lestrade. "What was stolen?"

"We're just looking into that now," Lestrade shrugged. "Donovan should be talking to the wife."

"He-" John began.

"Yes, yes, I heard," Sherlock was back to being dismissive. "So, nothing noticeable is missing, otherwise we'd already know. There's an expensive car on the driveway and an exclusive watch on his wrist. Therefore this is one of two things; either the killer was looking for something that most people wouldn't place much value on, _or_ this wasn't a burglary. Is there anything noticeable about the room?"

John looked around at the pristine office he was standing in. There were expensive pieces of technology littering the desk and shelves; nothing looked out of place, except for a cold cup of coffee on the sideboard. "Lots of expensive tech. A big bookcase; he was a fan of biographies by the looks of things. Taste looks a bit eclectic though."

"What do you mean?" John could hear Sherlock's frown.

"Well, there's a lot of politicians, but then dotted in between them are ones like Benjamin Britten and Andy Warhol."

"He's got Alan Turing down here," Lestrade reached over to the sideboard and picked up an open book.

"Did you hear all that, Sherlock?" John was nervously glancing at his watch. Four minutes to go. Until _what_ exactly he didn't know, but he was certain the outcome wouldn't be positive.

"John, listen to me very carefully." Sherlock's voice immediately put his flatmate on edge. "Is there anything in that room that could suggest this man has been poisoned?"

"Poisoned?" asked in surprise and Lestrade quirked an eyebrow in response.

"Yes, poisoned," Sherlock repeated with a sigh. "I thought I asked you to listen _carefully_."

John scanned the room again until his eyes landed on the sideboard. "Coffee cup," he breathed in surprise.

"Smell it," Sherlock instructed.

"What? Why?" John hesitated as he leaned down towards the cup.

"Oh, come on John, you must have read Agatha Christie," Sherlock was almost chuckling.

"You think it's cyanide?" John asked as he quickly inhaled. "Can't smell anything."

"Now, why might that be Doctor Watson?"

"Inspector," John pointed Lestrade in the direction of the cup.

"Almonds," Lestrade's brow crinkled as he stood up. "But you-"

"Detecting the almond smell is a genetic trait. Not everyone is able to identify it." John explained quickly before returning his attention to his phone. "Sherlock, how did you know that? You've got less than three minutes to tell me."

"Benjamin Britten, Andy Warhol and Alan Turing." Sherlock replied, he was beginning to sound bored again. "Influential men who all had one thing in common."

"What?"

"John, there are times when your lack of cultural knowledge astounds me. They were all gay. So was the victim."

"Sherlock, his _wife_ found him," John ran a hand through his hair. "_Wife."_

"His wife is the one who poisoned him," Sherlock replied.

"Two minutes left," Lestrade pointed out.

Sherlock seamlessly launched into his explanation. "Ian Lincoln was a successful consultant, who lived in an affluent area of London with his wife. They were both accustomed to their lavish lifestyle; extroverts based on the value of the car and the watch. Ian Lincoln was also secretly gay. His wife wouldn't want this becoming public knowledge, nor would she want to lose the lifestyle s he'd grown so accustomed to. So, she poisoned him and then made it look like someone else had killed him. She wanted him dead, but could you imagine a woman like that in jail?"

"And his choice of reading material told you she'd poisoned him?" John asked in disbelief as Lestrade left the room to retrieve Geri Lincoln

"Alan Turing. Poisoned apple." Sherlock replied as if that explained everything.. "She obviously thought it seemed fitting."

"So, she just left the poisoned coffee there on the sideboard for us to find?" John couldn't quite believe Sherlock's reasoning; not that this was anything new to him.

"Extrovert, John," Sherlock exhaled loudly. "I already told you."

"That is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," John was starting to panic again. He jumped as his phone buzzed in his ear, informing him that he was receiving another call.

"People are ridiculous, John," Sherlock replied just before he ended the call.

John Watson answered the phone with a surprisingly steady hand.


	7. Chapter 7

"His wife killed him," John almost tripped over his words as he raced to get the crucial information to Moriarty before the time ran out. He let out an exasperated puff of air as he was met by silence. "It was the wife. Cyanide. In the coffee."

Silence.

"Did you hear what I said?" John bellowed into the phone. "I said-"

"Loud and clear, Johnny boy," the snide voice finally responded with an unsettling chuckle. "I just wanted to add a bit of tension to your little game of Cluedo."

"Listen," John growled into the phone, "I'm getting really f-"

"Calm down, darling," Moriarty cooed with false concern, "it's all just a bit of fun. Plus you wouldn't want to upset me now, would you? I might do something silly." He let out a high-pitched shriek of mirth.

John gripped the phone more tightly, screwing his eyes shut as he forced himself to remain calm. It amazed him that one word from Moriarty could set his nerves on edge quicker than any other danger he'd faced in the past. "Was I right?"

Moriarty made a noncommittal noise. "You did alright."

John was momentarily distracted as he saw Geri Lincoln being led down the driveway by a sour-faced Sally Donovan.

"They've arrested her," John turned his attentions back to the Consulting Criminal. "Are we done here?"

"For now," Moriarty replied, a hint of boredom creeping back into his voice as the tension in the game lulled momentarily, "but this is far from over, Johnny. My next move will be made known to you shortly."

"Tell me what to do," John stated, his voice dangerously low as he felt his patience begin to ebb again.

"Don't push me, John, I don't like it."

"Tell me _now_."

"Um," Moriarty's voice had risen to a falsetto once more, "let me think about that."

"I'm _warning_ you."

"Oh, you're _warning_ me, are you?" Maniacal laughter was echoing in John's ear once more. "Well, John, I am _so_ scared. I'm literally _quaking_ in terror. But I hope you haven't forgotten about the little predicament our friend Sherlock is in; he is in quite a spot of bother, considering some pesky criminal stole those blood samples."

"You s-" John's bark was cut off abruptly as Moriarty terminated the phone call. He momentarily considered hurling the phone through the bay window of Ian Lincoln's office but was stopped as Lestrade reentered the room.

"Well?" The detective asked, frown lines creasing his forehead as he noticed the murderous look on the younger man's face. "What next?"

"He won't tell me," John mumbled as his eyes scanned the room for any clues to the next 'move'.

"What?"

"He won't _tell_ me!" John yelled, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Christ, Sherlock is right about you people; you never listen the first time!"

"John," Lestrade kept his voice low to counteract John's rising antagonism, "W e're on the same side here, don't forget that. I'll do whatever I can to help you and Sherlock."

"I'm sorry," John sighed apologetically "It's been a long night.". He selected Sherlock's number on the phone and pressed 'call'. He tapped his foot agitatedly as he waited for his flatmate to answer.

"John," Sherlock finally picked up, "was I right? Was it the wife?"

"Sherlock," John sighed again, "why do you have to care about being right? Shouldn't you be more interested in the fact that you're still alive."

"Of course not," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, and John wasn't even remotely surprised. "What's the next clue?"

"He wouldn't tell me," John replied, sinking into an expensive looking sofa. "He said I'd know about his next move 'soon'."

Sherlock grunted in frustration.

_Ping._

John and Lestrade's heads both snapped towards the iMac sitting on Ian Lincoln's desk as it alerted them to a new email. Lestrade crossed the room in two paces and looked carefully at the screen.

"It's for you," Lestrade turned to John, his mouth set in a grim line. "Should I open it?"

"What's going on?" Sherlock was demanding to know as his flatmate went to stand next to Lestrade

"Oh my God," John's breath hitched in his throat as he took in the appalling sight on the screen in front of him. His knees buckled and he dropped onto the swivel-chair next to him.

"John? _John_, what's going on?" Sherlock's voice floating up from the telephone that now hung limply in John's hand.

John continued to stare at the scene that filled the monitor in front of him; A photo showing a row of twelve inner-city terraced houses, flames licking the roof of each one. Smoke billowing from windows and doors as terrified residents flee from their homes; ch ildren crying, women frantically clutching their families, men carrying others over their shoulders as they race from the inferno.

A door slammed somewhere in the Lincoln property and John was suddenly spurred into action. Without another thought for Sherlock he ended the call and frantically dialed a number.

"Answer the phone," John's voice wavered as he jerked upwards and began to pace the room. "ANSWER THE PHONE!"

Lestrade gaped at John in confusion. "John?"

"That's Telford Avenue! Harry lives there!" Raw panic was written all over John's face as his sister's phone went to voicemail for the second time. "She's not answering. She's not-" His voice suddenly dropped to a low babble as he pressed redial again. Lestrade didn't need to be a medical professional to see shock setting in.

"Anderson!" Lestrade yelled as was greeted by the sight of his subordinate a few seconds later.

"Yes?" Anderson asked, shooting John a suspicious look.

" Get over to Telford Avenue," Lestrade barked, "there's been a fire. I want you to find Harriet Watson, got it?"

"Watson?" Anderson looked baffled.

"_Harriet Watson,_" Lestrade's voice hardened to steel. "No more questions. Get over there now. Call every hospital in London if you have to."

"But-"

"_Now!_" Lestrade roared and was rewarded with Anderson hightailing from the room with a look of fear etched on his face.

The detective's own phone began to ring in his pocket just as he moved towards speaking to John. He pulled it out hurriedly, debating whether to answer or tend to the other man. He looked at the caller id:

_Sherlock Holmes_

Quickly, Lestrade brought the phone to his ear.

"Put John on," Sherlock immediately demanded.

"I can't do that," Lestrade was watching the man in question warily as he kept redialing and redialing. "He was sent a photo."

"Of burning houses, yes I saw," Sherlock replied airily. "I assume that this has something to do with his next test."

"Lestrade we have to go, _now_," John was striding out of the room.

"John, wait!"

"Lestrade!" Sherlock sounded like a petulant child.

"Sherlock," Lestrade gritted his teeth and lowered his voice to a hiss, "forget about this game for a second. Those 'burning houses' are where Harry Watson lives."

Sherlock Holmes found himself in the rare position of being stunned into silence.


	8. Chapter 8

Lestrade's car had barely screeched to a halt before John threw himself out onto the pavement. He raced towards the cordon the firemen had erected at the end of Telford Avenue; even at this distance from the houses John could feel the air around him sparking with heat. He could his blood pounding in his ears, adrenaline racing through his veins as it propelled him towards the inferno.

"Sir, stop!" a fireman cried out as John hurled himself under the cordon.

Losing his footing on the slick tarmac John crashed to the ground, his thin pyjama trousers giving little protection from the hot, pebbly surface that scraped his shins. He allowed himself a lightning-quick wince as he clambered to his feet and continued his journey towards number 42.

"HARRIET!" he shouted at the top of his lungs as he saw that number 42 was ablaze. Panic coursed through him as he whirled around desperately seeking his sister's face in the stricken crowd gathe red behind the fire engines. "HARRY!"

"Sir, you must get behind the cordon," the fireman from earlier appeared at John's shoulder. He gently reached out to take John's arm, sympathy gracing his features.

"Get away from me," John spat as he wrenched his arm away mulishly. He made to move towards the houses again, but the fireman was too quick for him. Strong fingers wrapped around his arms and despite his struggling John could not release himself.

"Wait, he's with me!" Lestrade shouted, panting slightly as he watched John being physically removed from the scene. The detective reached into his pocket and extracted his badge. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"I'm sorry Inspector," the fireman replied, making no move to release John, "but we can't have anyone on this side of the cordon. Those buildings could come down at any moment."

John immediately stopped struggling and looked at the fireman as if seeing him for the first time. He shook his he ad to clear the ominous haze that was settling in the corner of his vision. Now was not the time to lose all control of the situation. The grip on his arms loosened somewhat.

"John!" A distant voice called. "John!"

The man in question spun on his heel and was just about able to make out Anderson gesturing manically at him from behind the crowd of people gathered beyond the cordon. He drifted away from Lestrade in a dreamlike state and moved slowly towards Anderson, willing a new surge of adrenaline to push him on. Gradually he felt his pace begin to increase, lungs burning as they struggled to cope with the exertion and the sizzling air. He shouldered through the crowd, everyone too stunned to complain, and stopped dead as he reached Anderson.

Harry Watson was standing next to him, a supermarket shopping bag hanging loosely in one hand as she gaped at the distant sight of her home ablaze in the pitch dark sky.

"Oh, God, Harry!" John threw his arms aro und his sister and allowed a few heaving sobs to escape.

"John!" Harry screeched angrily as she pushed her brother away from her. "Shit! My house is on fire. My _house_! What happened? Shit!" She clawed one hand through her hair and took a deep breath. "Has this got anything to do with you?"

John gulped in air as he processed the fact that his sister was alive, it didn't even bother him that she was angrier than he'd ever seen her before.

"Anderson! Where the hell is John?" Lestrade's voice came from somewhere in the crowd.

"I'm here," John limply held up a hand as the DI approached.

"Miss Watson," Lestrade let out a sigh of relief as his gaze fell on a familiar looking woman.

"John, what the _hell_ is going on here?" Harry glared accusingly at her brother. "Has this got something to do with that weirdo you live with?"

John was saved from answering as the phone rang in his pocket. Anger surged through him as he accepted the call with a savage flick of his finger and brought the phone to his ear.

"Awwwwww!" Moriarty cackled. "What a cute little family reunion. That little teary episode you had when you saw her really choked me up."

John's brain processed his adversary's words slowly. As soon as realisation kicked in, however, his eyes darted around the crowd, squinting at every face. "You can see me?"

"You're going to have to be a little quicker than that, Johnny Boy. You're playing the part of Sherlock Holmes and right now you're just not performing to his standard." Moriarty laughed at his own words as John struggled to seek him out in the crowd. "Perhaps we need to raise the stakes a little bit."

"What do you mean?" The familiar icy dread crept back to squeeze John's heart.

"Well, I just don't feel that you're taking this quite seriously enough." John could hear the pout in Moriarty's words. "Maybe you should give Sherlock a call. See how he's getting on."

"W-" John began to reply but he was cut off.

"Oh, and while you're at it,' Moriarty stopped to giggle again. "You might want to put that sister of yours somewhere safe. I could get bored of this game at any point. And I'm oh-so-deadly when I'm feeling changeable. Talk soon!"

Once again the conversation was abruptly ended by the obnoxiously loud click that alerted John to the fact the phone had locked itself. He immediately unlocked the screen and found Sherlock's number on the recent call list, ignoring Harry's questions about what was going on.

"What?" the detective's shirty salutation was enough to elicit a sigh of relief from John.

"Harry's alive!" John shouted into the phone, gaining a questioning look from his sister.

"Good. That's good." John frowned slightly as he noticed a slight tremor in his friend's voice.

"Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Dandy."

"Hang on a second." John lowered the phone and looked at Lestrade and Anderson. "I need you to take Harry to Scotland Yard. Don't ask me why, because I don't know the answer past the obvious one of 'because of Moriarty.'"

After a grim look from Lestrade, Anderson wordlessly nodded and gestured for Harry to follow him.

"What the hell is going on here, John?" Harry was gesticulating angrily. "My house is _gone_. Why the hell are you even here? I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what's happening."

"Lestrade, take her, please!" John began to walk away, raising the phone to his ear again.

"John!" Harry grabbed her brother's arm and searched his face for an answer.

"Harry! For God's sake, for once in your life just do as you're told and go with Lestrade."

The words were eerily calm, especially when Harry compared them to the fury, and fear, brewing in her brother's eyes. Wordlessly she let go of his arm and allowed him to walk away from her.

"Sherlock," John barked into the phone, the fight in him revived, "we need to end this. _Now_."

"Well only if you're sure."

John's heart leapt into his throat as he heard Moriarty's voice behind him. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, urging him to protect himself from the unseen threat. He turned and frantically searched the crowd again for any sign of the villain.

"John?" Sherlock's voice came down the line again.

"He's here," John breathed, "in the crowd."

"What?"

"I heard him. He's here!"

John's eyes were still darting round as he heard a faint clatter over the phone. "What's that?"

"Someone's thrown something at the window. I'm going to have a look," Sherlock replied and John could now clearly hear the effort it was taking for the detective to move around. They needed to find an antidote quickly.

"Be careful," John couldn't help the words as they escaped his lips.

_BANG_

John almost dropped the phone in surprise as the hollow sound of a gunshot blasted from the phone.

"Oh God. Sherlock!" John bellowed into the phone, face crinkling in fear. "Sherlock!"

"John!" Lestrade dropped a hand onto the younger man's shoulder a moment later. "John!"

John's eyes snapped to the DI's face and he knew exactly what words he would hear next.

"I've just had a call from my men on Baker Street. A shot's been fired. Sherlock's been hit."


	9. Chapter 9

John felt as though he'd been punched in the chest. The strength vanished from his legs and fleetingly, for the first time in months, he wished he had his cane with him. He put one hand out to steady himself against a lamppost as he clutched the phone to his ear with the other.

"Sherlock?" he was barely whispering into the handset now. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" Again, he was met only with silence and the ringing that still lingered in his ears.

"John," Lestrade was holding out his phone to the doctor, "look."

John did as instructed and found himself staring at a text message on Lestrade's phone that simply said GAME OVER.

"Lestrade, are you _sure_ he was hit?" John's voice was ragged as he implored the police officer to tell him he was wrong. The silence on the other end of the phone was proof in itself, but he found himself unable to accept that.

Lestrade nodded gravely and swallowed before he spoke. "Three of my men saw it happen. Sherlock was standing in the window; they said a red dot appeared on his chest and moments later..." He trailed off, unsure of how to go on. "There hasn't been any movement since then. I told them not to enter the building, John. Even under the circumstances I can't risk..."

John gave the barest of nods. In transient thoughts that had peppered the long hours he'd lain awake after the incident at the pool, John had believed that if he ever had to face the death of Sherlock Holmes he would react with rage; Fury would rip fervently through his veins, spurring him on to seek revenge. But in reality, he only felt a hollow sense of failure. "We should go."

Lestrade kept a respectful distance as he followed the dejected man to the car; he took in the sight of the slumped shoulders, ripped cardigan and bloodied pyjama trousers with a sigh. John had agreed to play a game that Moriarty had ended far earlier than anyone had expected, and he'd lost. The DI climbed in to the car with John, started the engine and drove away, not bothering to switch the siren on.

London was still active, even at half-past two in the morning. John stared through the passenger window, briefly catching glimpses of revellers returning home, destitute people gathered on church steps and an almost constant stream of taxis on Brompton Road. The wind was picking up and the flags adorning Harrods were flapping wildly; John shivered involuntarily.

Lestrade had been silent since they'd left Telford Avenue; he couldn't bring himself to speak, so kept his eyes on the road as they turned Hyde Park Corner. Long minutes stretched between them as they wound their way through the residential streets of Marylebone, playing for time, until they pulled up outside 221 Baker Street behind one of the unmarked police cars.

The passenger door was opened by an officer John recognised from the few occasions he'd been to Scotland Yard.

"Doctor Watso n," the officer said as John carefully maneuvered himself out of the car, clutching the door tightly to steady himself as he felt a familiar jolt of pain in his leg.

"John?" Lestrade was standing outside the front door. There was no other movement on the street, no sign that anyone was lurking in the shadows.

John's eyes travelled up the front of the building, heart hammering as he first made out the smashed pane of glass that had started this evening off, followed by the unmistakable bullet hole in the same window. He shivered again and pulled his cardigan tighter around himself as he hobbled towards Lestrade.

The DI nodded grimly as John approached. "Should we call an ambulance first? I told the men to hold off, just in case the shooter's still here somewhere."

John shook his head. He carefully pushed the door open and stepped into the familiar hallway. The house was completely silent as his eyes fell on his landlady's door. "Go and check on Mrs Hud son," he instructed Lestrade.

The doctor looked at the stairs in front of him, feeling as though he had a mountain to climb. He was surprised, in a way, that he hadn't bolted upstairs the second he set foot in the house. But that seemed impossible. He heaved his way up, an ounce of tension only leaving his body as he heard Mrs Hudson asking the DI if he would like a cup of tea, even if it was nearly three am.

John braced himself as he pushed open the door to the flat. He stumbled forward as his brain tried to process the scene in front of him; apart from the spot of blood on the floor there was no sign of Sherlock.

"Fulham to Baker Street in twenty minutes. Clearly you felt no need to rush."

John spun around so quickly he almost fell over, eyes widening in surprise, "Sherlock?"

The consulting detective was sitting on the floor leaning against the fridge, long legs splayed out in front of him. A thin sheen of perspiration covered his brow and he winced as he gripped his shoulder tightly.

John finally sprung into action as he bolted across the room and dropped to his knees beside his flatmate. "Are you okay?" He scrubbed his hands through his hair and blinked repeatedly. "What happened? They said you w-"

"John, I believe it would be best for all concerned if you calmed down a little." Sherlock winced as he shifted slightly.

"Calm down?" John backed away slightly and frowned. This was blunt, even for Sherlock. "_Jesus Christ, _Sherlock. I thought you were _dead_!"

"Well quite clearly that is not the case."

John was cut off from replying as the phone in his pocket beeped once again. He pulled the handset from his cardigan and looked at the screen.

"What does it say?" Sherlock grumbled as he reached out to take the phone.

COME OUT AND PLAY, JOHNNY BOY. I'M WAITING xxxxx


	10. Chapter 10

John forced himself to remain calm; his head was spinning, and every time he shifted his weight the tattered pyjama trousers would scrape over the grazes on his shins and knees causing him to wince as they momentarily fused together due to the semi-congealed blood he hadn't had time to clean off. He was leaning back against a kitchen cabinet, mirroring how Sherlock was still resting against the fridge across from him. The hateful phone lay on the ground between them and John silently willed it to remain silent. He didn't know what to say, or do for that matter. Instinct should be kicking in, forcing him to tend to Sherlock's wounded shoulder, but the fatigue, on top of the shock of discovering his flatmate was _not_ dead, was winning the battle.

"John?" Sherlock's voice roughly shook the doctor out of his thoughts. "John?"

John simply blinked in response, craning his head up slightly so that he could finally meet the younger man's eye s.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock, despite his pain and discomfort, actually had the good grace to look concerned; an emotion that, despite his usual behaviour and disregard for other people's feelings, always looked right at home on his features.

John was briefly reminded of when Sherlock has asked him the same question back at the pool; he shook his head lightly, surely that hadn't only been a few days earlier – it seemed an age since he'd clambered into the back of the ambulance, proclaiming he was fine, although secretly disheartened that he'd taken so much more of a beating than the consulting detective. John couldn't find the strength to reply this time.

"John?" Sherlock repeated his name and shuffled to his knees, briefly letting out a soft string of expletives as the muscles in his wounded shoulder tensed once more.

This movement seemed to remind John that he wasn't the one currently in deadly peril, at least not as obviously as his flatma te. He swiftly moved towards Sherlock and gently pushed him back down into a sitting position. "Sorry," he mumbled as Sherlock grumbled in protest.

John gingerly removed Sherlock's clasped hand from his shoulder and inspected the wound. A perfectly aimed shot – the bullet had gone straight through, without too much damage to the muscles; the complete opposite, in fact, of the wound he'd sustained in Afghanistan. He sighed in relief as he anticipated a full recovery for the man in front of him. "I need to get a proper first aid kit."

"A crack shot," Sherlock mumbled as John helped him to stand. He leaned back against the fridge again, pressing his burning cheek to the cold metal of the door.

"He had no intention of killing you." John didn't like the taste those words produced as he spat them out.

"Not by shooting me anyway," Sherlock's voice wavered slightly.

Only then did John really look at the man in front of him. Sherlock's face, usual ly porcelain white, was flushed pink at the cheeks, the scar from the swimming pool no longer standing out so garishly. His eyes looked dull and virtually colourless, and his breathing was far more ragged than it should be – even for a man who'd just been shot. Rosy tracks were beginning to spider up Sherlock's arm from where the nicotine patch remained, disappearing under his rolled up shirt sleeve at the crook of his elbow.

Poison.

The worry and fear that John had been internalising all evening exploded as the reality of Moriarty's threat faced him. Playing the Irish man's twisted game had distracted him from the fact that Sherlock needed an antidote. He turned from his friend and hammered his fist into the kitchen table, an animalistic roar bursting from his throat as his knuckles made contact with wood. He felt impotent; here he was a doctor, an _army_doctor, and there was nothing he could do for the man in front of him. Everything he'd ever bee n taught was useless if he didn't have access to medical equipment and facts. He scrubbed his hands through his hair and tugged as he tried to regain control.

"Jesus Christ!"

Lestrade's exclamation was what eventually got John's attention. The DI was standing in the doorway, eyes darting between the two men in front of him; his expression clearly illustrating his surprise.

"I thought you were dead!" Lestrade strode towards Sherlock and inspected him closely, as if expecting this to be an elaborate marionette performance controlled by Moriarty.

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. "You people underestimate me far too often."

"Sherlock, this isn't a joke!" John bellowed, breathing hard as a new surge of adrenaline hit him forcefully. "He's trying to _kill_ you!"

Sherlock opened his eyes and fixed John with his calculating gaze. "I am aware of that, thank you, John. As I said earlier, we must treat this as we treat all cases. There sho uld be no difference in the way we approach the investigation."

John made a sound, somewhere between a growl and a strangled screech. The bruised and battered man realised that he was wavering dangerously on a precipice; if he tipped just a little more he would probably enter meltdown territory. He bit back the scathing reply he so desperately wanted to release and looked at Lestrade. "I need you to call someone at Barts. Tell them you need a full poison kit brought here _now_. I also need a ward set, with plenty of gauze – I need to patch up that bullet wound properly. Then you need to get out of here, because I don't trust that he won't kill us all if you don't." Without another word he clenched his fists and slowly walked up the stairs to his bedroom, resisting the urge to slam any doors behind him.

He sat on his bed and tentatively inspected his knuckles; two were split and the back of his hand was already taking on a plum-coloured tinge. Still, at least it didn't look as though anything was broken. He reached for his laptop and opened a search page. He may not be Sherlock Holmes, but he was going to figure out what Moriarty had infected the consulting detective with. He considered the fact that despite not being a genius, or a sociopath, or a musical prodigy, or any of the multitude of things that his flatmate was, it was going to be up to him to get them out of this mess. As he typed he tried to drown out the voices coming from below. Lestrade had finished his calls and had turned his attention to Sherlock.

"Sherlock," Lestrade was berating the wounded man, "you really need to take this more seriously."

"Lestrade, forgive me, but I would rather you left now as John instructed." John heard Sherlock shuffle towards the living area.

"Sherlock, you need to give him a break." Lestrade was exasperated now. "Tonight he's had to be you. No offence, that's not a position most people would ever want to be in."

Sherlock scoffed, but the DI continued regardless. "His sister has been threatened; her house was burned to the ground, and it was only by a stroke of luck that she wasn't there. _You _have been poisoned and shot at in the space of a few hours. Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I told him you were _dead_. You might be able to breeze through life, playing this game and being cleverer than everyone else, but us mere mortals don't work like that. John is a good man, Sherlock, and he's been through more tonight than anyone should face in a lifetime. Just for once, you need to let him take charge and do it his way, No matter what Moriarty thinks, John will never become like you, Sherlock, and while that's no bad thing, it means he stands to lose a hell of a lot more than you ever could."

Under any other circumstance John would have smiled at the silence that followed, applauding Lestrade for managing to stun the consulting detective into silence. But the tru th of the DI's words had cut close to the bone – he would never be Sherlock, but if that was the case, he would never win the game.

He squinted as he continued to read the information on the screen in front of him. Sherlock's symptoms were standard for a lot of common poisons, but it was the intervals for onset of these symptoms that John was looking carefully at; There had been at least a couple of hours where no obvious signs had presented, but then everything else had happened quickly. His eyes scanned page after page looking for anything that would help.

Footsteps bounding up the stairs and the increasing volume of a phone's ring caused his heart to sink.

There was no surprise as Lestrade opened the bedroom door and held the phone out to him.

John took the handset and held it to his ear.

"So maybe the game's not over just yet," Moriarty laughed.

John remained silent. There were so many things he wanted to say to the criminal, bu t he forced himself to hold his tongue.

"Oh, Johnny," Moriarty cooed. "Don't give little old Jim the silent treatment. I thought we were friends. Although, you are betraying my trust a little by having a police officer in the house. I'll let you off considering I did shoot your little playmate, but tell Lestrade he has to go now, before I change my mind."

John nodded gravely to Lestrade who understand the message.

"I'll be in the car," Lestrade said quietly and left the doctor alone once more.

"Are you ready for the next part of the game, John John?" Moriarty's voice had reached a hysterical pitch again.

"I'm listening."


	11. Chapter 11

John was leaning heavily against the front door watching his breath condense in the night air as he waited for Lestrade's car to arrive. He could have waited inside number 221 but the cold biting his cheeks was keeping him alert. He was, however, pleased that he had finally found an opportunity to swap his pyjamas for a warm jumper and pair of jeans had ended his call with Moriarty almost half an hour earlier – the consulting criminal had given him a time limit of three hours for his next task. Sherlock had pushed him to leave immediately, but John had stood firm; he was waiting until Lestrade arrived with the poison kit.

Headlights finally appeared at the end of Baker Street and John set off at a run towards the approaching car. Lestrade pulled up and opened the window, holding two boxes out to John.

"Thank you," John took the kits gratefully from the DI. "It should only take me twenty minutes to take the samples and patch up the wou nd."

"I'll wait here," Lestrade nodded gravely. "When we leave Barts I'm going to station a group of men outside the lab. Hopefully that will stop the samples from disappearing this time."

John nodded again before turning back to the house.

"John?" The doctor turned at Lestrade's call. "Will he be okay?"

John didn't reply. He grimly set his jaw and headed once more back into Baker Street.

Sherlock was most certainly not feeling okay. His heart rate had been climbing steadily even before he'd been shot. The only positive he could find was that the pain in his shoulder was beginning to dull to a faint throb now that the painkillers John had forced upon him had begun to kick in, but his headache didn't seem to be easing in the slightest.

John took the final blood sample and carefully placed a sticking plaster over the tiny hole in Sherlock's arm. He placed the now-full phials carefully back into the box before climbing to his fee t.

"I've got Mike waiting to run the tests the minute we get to Barts; he's going to get the results as soon as possible and call me," the doctor explained to his flatmate as he snapped the box shut and shrugged on his coat. "He'll gather any medical supplies that we need and bring them here. Lestrade has eight men stationed outside here and another six at the lab."

Sherlock looked up at John and assessed him as he readied himself for his next task. The older man seemed to have developed some control over his emotions since he'd spoken to Moriarty. He was no longer shaking and his voice was even and composed. He hadn't even flinched as he took blood this time; it appeared that he had rediscovered the clinical detachment a successful doctor needs; an aloofness that Sherlock hadn't been entirely sure that John possessed. It unsettled him slightly and his eyes wandered to the clock, sighing heavily again as the trapped feeling he'd been experiencing all evening surf aced once more.

"John, I can't help but feel we're wasting valuable time here," Sherlock complained as he shifted slightly in the armchair.

John chose to ignore this comment, instead making sure that the pink phone was securely in his pocket. "I'll call you as soon as I get to St Paul's. Mike will call you every fifteen minutes for an update on heart rate and symptoms."

"John, your mother-hen tendencies are somewhat trying."

"Just answer your phone, Sherlock," John refused to raise his voice.

"If it is convenient."

"Even if it's inconvenient," John gave Sherlock a sharp look. "If Mike doesn't hear from you I come straight back here, even if I haven't solved the puzzle." John knew that the decision wouldn't be that simple if it came to it, and from the self-assured look on Sherlock's face so did he.

"No, you won't."

"Maybe not," John acquiesced, "but then I'll just have to send Mycroft."

Sherlock looked horrifi ed at the mere suggestion of involving his brother; neither man mentioned that Mycroft certainly already knew what was happening.

John picked up the box of samples and crossed to the window; as agreed, Lestrade was waiting once more in the car, engine running. He sighed for what felt the hundredth time that evening as yet another yawn forced him to recognise his body's need for rest.

Sherlock, already tapping away on John's laptop, looked over at his flatmate from his more comfortable perch in his armchair which John had dragged into the kitchen, as far from the window as possible. Sherlock had felt this was taking things somewhat to far but a combination of John's unwavering determination and Lestrade's earlier words had quelled Sherlock's desire for a conflict. It didn't take any skill on the part of the consulting detective to deduce that John was practically dead on his feet.

"What?" John asked, tensing slightly as he felt Sherlock read him like a book.

"You look terrible."

John chuckled despite his black mood. "Thanks."

Sherlock's lips quirked slightly, but his attention quickly returned to his searching.

"I'll be off then," John paused at the door. "Remember to answer your phone."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock waved his hand nonchalantly, not looking up from the screen.

John rolled his eyes slightly before closing the door softly behind him.

As the handle clicked back into place, Sherlock finally allowed his body to protest in earnest, choking back a rare sob of pain as his head violently throbbed. He'd calculated his chances of surviving this and the odds were not favourable. One thing, however, was a certain fact; if Sherlock Holmes was going out, he would do everything in his power to take Moriarty with him.


	12. Chapter 12

John ran his hands over his face once more, pinching his cheeks slightly to keep himself alert. He tapped his fingers on the thighs of his jeans in nervous anticipation of what was to come. The streets around St Paul's felt too quiet, too still, even for the middle of the night. Yet, lights flared out from under the dome ensuring that Wren's design glowed as a beacon of hope across the London skyline, defying the inky blackness that threatened to engulf the Doctor.

The pink phone vibrated once in John's pocket, accompanied by a metallic tone alerting him to the arrival of a new text. He frowned as unlocked the device and stared at the words:

**Feed the birds.**

**Tuppence a bag**.

A shoe scuffing the pavement behind him caused John to turn immediately. Jim Moriarty stood before him wearing a coat that was just as tailored but possibly even more dramatic than Sherlock's. He was holding a small paper bag out towards John.

"Not a Mary Poppins fan then, eh John?"

John forced himself to bite back the string of angry expletives he desperately wanted to let loose upon seeing the Consulting Criminal's face. He was a soldier, after all, and he wasn't going to fall apart just yet.

"I hope you got a good tariff for this thing," John waved the phone lightly towards his adversary. "Otherwise this little game with Sherlock must cost you a fortune."

Moriarty stared at John for a long moment in silence, before throwing back his head and expelling a guffaw that echoed off the stone plinths surrounding the two men.

"Oh, Doctor Watson," Moriarty shook his head, still chuckling as he took a step towards John, "I've said it before and I'll say it again; I really _can_ see why Sherlock likes having you around."

John didn't reply, instead he forced himself to keep his gaze steady on the man approaching him. Each step Moriarty took made John's already stretched nerves begin to pinch and tense even further.

"Why am I here?" John asked as the criminal paused with only a foot of space between them. "I thought I was supposed to be solving a puzzle."

"Oh you will be, my dear," Jim grinned once more, "don't you worry about that."

"Got another envelope for me?" John adopted a bored tone that was almost reminiscent of his flatmate.

Moriarty, of course, did not miss this. "Good!" He exclaimed throwing his hands up with a chuckle. “ ;Much better, Doctor Watson. You almost sound like him now. I love people who fully commit." His voice dropped to a dangerously low pitch as he stepped even closer to John. "Now let's see what we have in here." He reached out a hand to tap John's temple.

As the hand ghosted over his hair John's patience snapped. Snarling he grabbed the lapels of Moriarty's coat in both hands and slammed him against the cold stone of the Cathedral. For a split-second he chastised himself for the feeling of triumph that overcame him as a thin trail of blood ran from underneath the criminal's hairline. But then John remembered what this man had done to Harry's home, and to Sherlock and he allowed the feeling to settle.

John let go of the coat and Moriarty slowing sank down onto his haunches, blinking dazedly. John took a few steps backwards, breathing heavily.

"That wasn't very nice, John," Mor iarty's voice was much quieter than John had ever heard it, but there was a palpable edge of ice that he recognised only too well. "That wasn't the smart thing to do."

John looked down at his chest, fully expecting the familiar red light to be dancing across his chest. He was not disappointed.

"You, see," Moriarty was continuing as he climbed to his feet, his hand reaching up to wipe the ruby track from his cheek, "this is the difference between you and us."

"Us?" John spat, aiming to sound derisive in the face of the realisation that was beginning to dawn; he'd just attacked the man who was holding Sherlock's life in the balance.

"Us," Moriarty repeated, still speaking in that calm, quiet voice that was beginning to undo the control John was trying to assert on his anxiety. "Sherlock and I. We're the same, you see, me and him."

"You are _not_," John snapped, feeling the need to defend his friend from this verbal slur.

"Oh yes we are, Doctor Watson," Moriarty was smiling again. "But _you_; you're just like everyone else. You let your heart rule your head. You _care." _Moriarty spat this out as though he was disgusted to taste the word. "And when you care you make mistakes. Mistakes that have serious consequences."

John let out a frustrated growl.

Moriarty raised his hand to his head and pointed at the blood that was once more snaking across his cheek. "_This_ is a mistake that you made, John, and now you have to live with the consequences."

"What consequences?" John felt his heart rate begin to climb once more.

"You now only have an hour to solve the next puzzle," Moriarty smirked. "Oh, and to make sure you don't get d istracted I think I'll take this." He reached over and plucked the pink phone from John's coat pocket.

"No!" John reached for the phone, but his hand's progress stilled as the red dot slowly moved up to come to a halt between his eyes.

"Prove that you've been a good student, Doctor Watson," Moriarty giggled as he produced another gold envelope from his pocket.

"I need the phone," John snatched the envelope from the other man.

"No, you don't," Moriarty waved his hand airily. "Sherlock has faith in you, and that's all that matters isn't it, John? Faith? You don't need to be a genius to figure any of these things out, do you?"

Moriarty turned on his heel and began to walk away. After a few steps he turned to face John once more, leering at him in the darkness. "Whoops! I was wrong. You _do_ need to be a genius to figure out the puzzles. So I guess poor old Sherlock hasn't got much time left."

"Give me the phone," John shouted, than added through gritted teeth, "please?"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Moriarty skipped back to the Doctor. "Did you say please?"

John remained silent, dropping his eyes to the pavement.

"Say it again Johnny boy, and maybe a little louder this time."

John took a steadying breath and tried to ignore the way his skin crawled. "Please?"

Moriarty waited for John to meet his gaze. "Oh, alright then," he shrugged. "Only because it would be such a shame to end the game early. But you better behave this time. "

John took the phone, not bothering to hide the tremor in his fingers this time.

"Have fun, Doctor Watson," Moriarty smiled in a manner as pleasant as a maraud ing crocodile. "I'll be in touch."

John nodded silently as he watched Moriarty walk away. He held himself ramrod straight until the criminal turned the corner and the red dot left his chest, then he dropped to his knees as his strength gave way beneath him.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he mumbled as he took another deep breath, "living with you is going to get me killed."


	13. Chapter 13

John couldn't help but feel that he was breaking some strict moral code as he tentatively twisted the ornate doorknob. The old wood creaked in protest as he was slowly admitted entry, already feeling the eyes of hundreds of carved figures peering down at him from above.

"Right," he muttered to himself as he wondered how he was supposed to see anything in the black vastness stretching before him. "You've fought on a battlefield and you chase criminals across London with the most bloody-minded man on the planet…you can handle a dark, church at night. A big, creepy church…" He trailed off as a candle stuttered to life a few metres ahead of him. Raising his arms in front of him he carefully shuffled towards the stuttering flame.

As he approached the candle the light licked the surrounding areas, capturing the flickering outline of a chest resting on a pew. As John grew closer he could make out a few letters stamped on the top of the chest; dust obscured most of the printing, however, and he had to rub his palm against the cold metal to clear the debris. His face creased into a frown as the letters became a name in front of him; Mycroft Holmes, 1F

John turned, took the candle from its holder, and knelt down next to the chest. He had to briefly battle with the rusted clasps, each one causing a resounding crack to echo through the building, but he eventually managed to lift the heavy lid and peer into the mysterious box. What on earth could be in this box? Government secrets? A body? A weapon? He held the candle closer to warily inspect the contents.

The sight that greeted him was so far from what he expected that he couldn't stop the small laugh that bubbled from his lips. Before him lay the various personal effects of what he could only assume was an adolescent Mycroft Holmes; Science textbooks, an exercise book for Maths, a pencil case that John strongly su spected contained a quill, and most amusingly of all, a small, brown teddy bear shoved unceremoniously into a stretched sports sock. John tentatively picked up a small, worn, leather-bound book with a gold crest embossed on the front; flicking through it quickly he discovered it was a school rulebook. "Probably memorised it."

From somewhere in the darkness there was a loud click, followed by the low whirr of electric lights as the elements warmed from a pinkish glow to a soft white that bathed the vaulted heights of the Cathedral in an ethereal radiance. John's senses were immediately heightened; his eyes darted around, looking for anything out of place in his surroundings. He felt the vibrations of the phone in his pocket a split-second before the shrill ring cut through the hush. His fingers dove into his pocket and he swiped his finger across the screen to answer the call.

"Are you enjoying the air of nostalgia, John?" Moriarty's voice held an air of amusement once again. "There's just something about school days that gets the mind racing."

"What is this supposed to be?" John gestured to the case, assuming that the Consulting Criminal could probably see him anyway.

"Now, John, I would have thought that was fairly obvious," Moriarty replied, glee evident in his voice. "It would have been nice to use Sherlock's school trunk, but there wasn't really anything interesting to say about it. Anyway, I think I've already borrowed enough of hispossessions this evening."

John ignored the jibe. "What do you want me to do?"

"I'm not telling you what to do, John. You're not my puppet, after all." The call ended without another word.

John selected Sherlock's number and pressed the phone to his ear once more. Come on, come on, come on; the silent mantra reeled around in John's head until he heard the call answer. There was a moment of complete stillness, before the Doctor heard a shaky intake of breath.

"John?"

"Sherlock. Are you alright?" John felt the now-familiar sensation of panic gripping his heart as he tried to assess his flatmate's health over the phone. It was then that John realised the full extent of Moriarty's plan – yes, Sherlock couldn't see a crime scene and had to rely on John's eyes; but John, Doctor John Watson, was being kept from his patient. "Sherlock?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock cleared his throat loudly. "Now why did you call me?"

John tried to keep his thought unspoken; it would not do for him to fall apart, he chided himself, he was a Doctor. Oh, but he was also a friend, possibly the only friend, of the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes, and it would not do for the world to lose that man. "Sherlock, you need to tell me what's wrong. We need to help each other out here; if I'm concerned about your health I might miss something important."

There was virtual silence on the ot her end, nothing but the slightly laboured breathing of the Consulting Detective. John, however, could practically hear the cogs whirring as Sherlock forced himself to accept John's words. "My heart rate has slowed slightly and I'm experiencing some tightness in my chest. The vision in my left eye is approximately 70% of normal operation. I'm fine."

John shivered slightly at the clinical delivery; the facts made his skin crawl – there was no way to pin down any of those symptoms to one poison without laboratory analysis. "Have you taken the pills I gave you?"

"Yes, yes." There was the offhand manner John was used to. "Now, can you stop wasting time and tell me what you've got?"

"I met Moriarty, he w-"

"He was there?" Sherlock suddenly sounded very interested.

"Yeah," John continued, not entirely sure what had piqued his flatmate's interest so much, "he came to give me the next puzzle."

"John do you not see?"

John opened his mo uth to respond but was cut off almost immediately. "I-"

"No, of course you don't," Sherlock continued condescendingly. "He was with you earlier tonight at Blackwall. He was with you at your sister's house. He's with you again, John."

"So?" John was baffled.

"So he's more interested in watching you than in me," Sherlock concluded, sounding, to John at least, quite offended. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Why bother watching you?"

"Sherlock, I really d-"

"Oh!"

John could see the steepled fingers, the sudden look of surprise that widened eyes under unkempt curls. "Oh, what?"

"He's not interested in me. This isn't about me, John, it's about you."

"Sherlock, that doesn't really explain anything."

"Forget about it for now," Sherlock replied, sounding suspiciously bright. "Tell me what you can see."

"I'm in St Paul's," John replied, allowing Sherlock to retain his mystery for now, "there's a trunk with your brother's name on i t."

"A trunk?" Sherlock sounded surprised.

"Yeah. A metal trunk filled with school things. It has 'Mycroft Holmes, 1F' stamped on the top of it."

John waited for a few seconds in silence, expecting Sherlock to jump in with some information.

"Sherlock?"

"Berkshire," Sherlock breathed. "How could he possibly get hold of that?"

"Sherlock?" John tried again.

"But, that was twenty-five years ago."

"Sherlock!" John's voice rose as his flatmate continued to babble. "Sherlock!"

"John," Sherlock's focus immediately shifted back to the present at John's bellow, his voice dropping impossibly deeper, "listen to me, this is very important. Is there a book in the trunk? A small, red one with a crest on the front."

"The rulebook?" John asked, reaching down to pick up the item. "I'm holding it."

"Turn to page forty-two."

"What?"

"Forty-two, John!" John hoped he was imagining the air of panic in Sherlock's voice as he flicked through the old paper.

"It's not here," John shook his head slightly as he inspected the remaining slip of page forty-two that clearly denoted it had been ripped out in a hurry.

"What?"

"It's not here," John dangled the book by its covers. "It's been ripped out and not stuffed back in anywhere."

"John, you need to speak to my brother," Sherlock sounded odd. "You need to ask him about Alexander Reynolds."

"Who?"

"I thought I told you to listen to me," Sherlock huffed. He definitely sounded slightly strangled, but John had a hunch that it wasn't because of his symptoms. "You need to speak to Mycroft and ask him about Alexander Reynolds."

"Wouldn't it be better if you spoke to him?" John asked, still none the wiser as to what was going on.

"My brother will not speak to me about this," Sherlock replied after a brief pause. "I doubt he'll speak to you."

"He will if your life depends on it."

"Are you so sure a bout that, John?" Sherlock asked, slightly quieter.

John thought about it for a second. "Yes," he nodded vehemently despite the fact that Sherlock couldn't see, "because he's your brother."

"It's precisely because I'm his brother that he might refuse to help."

Sherlock ended the call before John could ask any further questions.

What the hell was going on?


	14. Chapter 14

John pulled the door to the cathedral shut behind him and shivered once more in the chilly night air. He squinted into the darkness as he made out a figure standing under a streetlight further up the road towards. He slowly made his way towards the silhouette, and let out a breath of relief as a recognisable woman came into focus.

"Hello," the ever-perky 'Anthea' greeted him, her eyes never leaving her Blackberry. "The car will be here in a second."

John opened his mouth to ask how she knew to be here, then closed it promptly as he recognised the inevitable redundancy of questioning Mycroft Holmes' ability to know everything about everyone.

The now-familiar black car glided silently around the corner as though it had simply materialised out of the night. As it smoothly came to a halt at the kerb the door opened and Anthea ducked inside. John hesitated for a split-second before following her into the vehicle.

"Good evening, John." Mycroft's velvety tones held none of the barely-disguised amusement that John normally found directed at him. It had been replaced by a sharp edge of steel that gave further evidence to support Sherlock's proclamation that his brother was 'the most dangerous man' John would ever meet.

"Mycroft," John nodded as the car pulled away. Anthea sat across from the two men tapping constantly on her phone's keyboard. John wondered momentarily whether he should suggest that Mycroft buy his 'assistant' a touchscreen device next time to lessen the amount of clicking. However, now was clearly not the time to be comparing smartphones.

"I trust you are well, aside from the obvious upheaval to your evening," Mycroft continued. The slight arch of his eyebrow suggested to John that perhaps the elder Holmes had cottoned on to John's thought processes and was beginning to genuinely question his sanity.

"I'm fine," John waved his hand in a manner eerily similar to his flatmate. "I assume you are aware of what's happening."

"Yes," Mycroft's face twisted into a frown of distaste. "We have been aware of the…_developments _that have taken place this evening, but I have been unwilling to intervene as it would have been a breach of the 'rules.'"

John could hear the airquotes. It was obvious that Mycroft disapproved of his younger brother viewing his interactions with Moriarty as a game.

"However," the older man continued, "the relic from my schooldays that you have just been presented with has necessitated the need for my immediate participation."

"Who is Alexnader Reynolds?" John carefully studied Mycroft's features as he asked the question, just for some hint of what he was getting himself tangled up with now.

Mycroft let out a deep sigh and tapped once on the glass that separated the passengers from the driver. The car stopped and Anthea wordlessly opened the door and began to shuffle out.

"You're leaving?" John called as she stepped out onto the pavement.

"Obviously," she replied, pushing the door shut as she continued to type furiously.

John looked at Mycroft questioningly but there was silence until the car began moving again a few moments later.

"Doctor Watson, John…" Mycroft trailed off and if this had been anyone else John would have described them as flustered, _nervous _even. Eventually the elder Holmes looked up and caught John with a piercing stare. "Alexander Reynolds is a name I haven't uttered aloud in twenty-five years. Sherlock was just a boy when it happened, but I should have known that he would be aware of my…involvement."

John was tired, and cold, and definitely in no mood for the obtuse storytelling style that both Holmes brothers seemed to favour. "Involvement in what?" he snapped, only a little harder than he intended. "I don't have time to guess."

Mycroft had the grace to look slightly sheepish before continuing. "When Sherlock was six our father was called away on some urgent business. This wasn't anything out of the ordinary, but unfortunately the announcement came at a time when our mother was particularly unwell; the thought of being alone in London with her…_curious_ son was too much for her to contemplate. Sherlock had recently scared off the latest in a series of nannies through a campaign of terror culminating in placing seventeen dead goldfish in her bed – naturally he protested his innocence as it had simply been an experiment to test reactions to stress.

He hadn't been too much trouble in his younger years but after I left for school he became more challenging. With mother unwilling to take Sherlock to the country to be with her as she recuperated at my aunt's home he was left with nowhere to go. My father wrote to my school in Berkshire and requested that Sherlock be accepted into the boarding house for the rest of the academic year in order to 'get a feel' for the system that he would be entering in a few years."

"And the school agreed?" John felt a simmering anger borne from loyalty to his friend. "Nobody would have him so your father thought it best to leave a six year old _child_ in a boarding house filled with teenagers?"

"Naturally father included quite a large cheque with the request and Sherlock arrived the following week." Mycroft chose to ignore John's look of derision. "At first it was fine – he was a bit of a novelty for the older boys – he wasn't afraid to stand up for himself, but, as you know, he has a tendency to say exactly what he is thinking with no apparent awareness for the implications of his statements."

John closed his eyes as an inexplicable sense of dread settled in his stomach. "What did he say?"

"One evening, long after lights out, Sherlock had decided to go for a wander around the school; some of the older boys had told him there were various secret passageways to be found. Despite his inherent disbelief of such tales, there was still enough six year old about him that required he check. To cut a long story short Sherlock happened across a crime in progress; Alexander Reynolds, a particularly abrasive fifth-former, was stealing examination papers from the Latin master's study, I assume with the intention to sell them to other students for profit. I don't know the specifics of what occurred only that by next morning my brother was nowhere to be found."

"What happened to him?"

"He was found three days later. Alexander had locked him in the attic of the boathouse. Nobody had heard his cries for help because it was outside rowing season. I don't know how long he would have been there if it hadn't been for the caretaker."

John's fists balled in anger. "He was _six_."

"Yes, he was. And I was thirteen." Darkness clouded Mycorft's eyes for an instant and John was suddenly afraid of what he might hear next. "Alexander boasted about the fact that he had contained 'the freak'." Both men shared a wince. "I have always believed in the rules of a system, John, and that those rules are there to create necessary order. The school rulebook was the order of our lives, and Alexander Reynolds had stepped beyond the boundaries of what was acceptable. Luckily there were systems in place to restore the natural order of the school, to protect the integrity of its name and its students."

"Mycroft?" John asked carefully after a strained silence. "What happened to Alexander?"

Mycroft regarded the man before him. He closed his eyes for a long moment and when he made his confession it was little more than an exhalation of breath. "I killed him."


	15. Chapter 15

"You killed him?" John's question rushed from his lips in a hiss. "A fifteen-year old, Mycroft. He was a child!"

Mycroft's eyes widened at John's words. "You think he should have been left unpunished for what he did to Sherlock? If that is the case, John, my assessment of your feelings towards my brother has been unusually misjudged. Would you rather Sherlock had died?"

"Of course not," John snapped, reeling momentarily before logic resurfaced and he accepted that Mycroft was simply trying to bait him. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Why didn't you let the school deal with him?"

"I did," Mycroft nodded, sniffing in distaste, "but I was not satisfied with the handling of the situation."

"You weren't satisfied with something? How surprising." John slumped in his seat. "So you had to sweep in to save the day?"

"People in glass houses, John," Mycroft continued staring straight ahead.

"What is that supposed to mean?" John turned violently to face the other man.

"You killed a man to save my brother's life only days after meeting him, and yet you condemn my conduct. In reality, we are the same in our actions."

"We are not," John laughed bitterly, the slight edge of hysteria, however, was not missed by Mycroft's astute ears. "You murdered someone before you were old enough to drive!"

"No," Mycroft's sharp tone chilled John's blood quicker than the icy morning air had. A brief flash of venom illuminated the older man's eyes before he opened his mouth to continue. "You assumed I murdered him, and you assumed I was a child when it happened."

John's brow creased. "But, you said you killed him. You s-"

"Alexander Reynolds was a parasite," Mycroft spat, silencing John immediately. "He remained at the school, despite my best attempts to persuade him to leave. His father ensured numerous misdemeanours were wiped clean from his school record. We were at university together and joined the service at the same time. He was sent overseas on a fact-finding trip, and unfortunately for him he hadn't quite grasped the dangers of acting as a double agent."

"What happened?" John's stomach clenched.

"He was shot as he left the Embassy on the final day of his trip."

"By you?"

"I've never been one for getting my hands dirty, John. Sherlock and I are similar in that respect. Although he c-"

"How can you be so casual about this?" John's frown deepened.

"How is this any different to what you did for a living?" Mycroft finally faced his companion as the car slowed to a halt.

John bristled. "What I did wasn't affected by personal vendetta. It wasn't personal."

"Everything's personal, John," Mycroft reached over and opened the door as a sign for John to leave. "You of all people should know that."

John shook his head and climbed out of the car. He wasn't entirely sure why he was r eacting like this; he knew Mycroft was dangerous – Sherlock had told him so after John had first met him. But there was something particularly unsettling about the fact that Mycroft had carefully plotted someone's downfall over the course of a decade all because of a childhood prank, albeit an exceptionally nasty prank.

"Oh, and Doctor Watson?"

John dropped his attention from his own front door and turned to face Mycroft, steeling himself for whatever barb the elder Holmes was preparing to fire at him. "Yes, Mycroft?"

"Hypocrisy really doesn't suit you."

**ooOoo**

Sherlock was shivering. The (small) irrational portion of his mind was trying to attribute this symptom to the fact that the shattered windowpane was permitting an icy breeze to flutter around the flat. But in reality Sherlock knew why he was shivering – his temperature had steadily crawled into the danger territory and he knew he was beginning to suffer symptoms of shock. Whatever poison Mo riarty had administered was attacking far more ferociously than he had initially expected. He'd hurtled unceremoniously onto the kitchen floor not long ago and had been unable to move since.

Heavy footfalls on the stairs sounded familiar, but he couldn't pinpoint who they belonged to. A sharp, grasping panic clutched at his chest and he fought to suck in air. Why couldn't he recognise the footsteps? Why? He felt the question being tugged from his soul as a wail; an inhuman sound that impossibly came from within him.

"Sherlock. Sherlock!"

Cool fingers traced across his cheekbones before a palm, chilled by the night air, rested gently on his forehead. He couldn't stop the involuntary jerk of his head that pushed himself closer to the sanctuary the touch brought.

"Sherlock. Can you hear me? Are you with me?"

John. Sherlock's fever-ravaged mind screamed at him once more, giving him an answer he could momentarily cling on to. "John?"

John's eyes widened at the weak murmur of his name. "Christ, Sherlock. You need to tell me how you feel. Have you taken anything since I last spoke to you?"

"No," Sherlock forced out eventually. "Ten…ten minutes ago."

"You started feeling worse ten minutes ago?" John's eyes and hands were flying across Sherlock's body as if on autopilot, hunting for clues. "Is that what you mean?"

Sherlock nodded minutely and John would have missed it entirely if his palm hadn't come once more to rest on Sherlock's head.

John's phone rang startling them both.

"Phone," Sherlock breathed.

"No," John shook his head vehemently.

"Phone," Sherlock tried again, trying to lift his arm to reach the source of ringing himself.

"No!" John bellowed, wincing apologetically as his friend flinched beneath his touch.

John stumbled to his feet and raked his hands through his hair. He was a soldier, a doctor; he'd faced the battlefield in Afghanistan, and he'd f aced the battlefield with Sherlock. He should be prepared for this. Should be. But he hadn't been lying when he told Mycroft that what he'd done before wasn't personal; it wasn't the whole truth - of course he'd felt horror when he'd killed someone, guilt when he hadn't managed to save a life, but this battle with Moriarty was different. Because this was entirely personal, and John's carefully constructed armour that had allowed him to fight for his country was damaged, and he feared he was soon to suffer a fatal blow.

"John?"

The fragile mumble from the kitchen floor dragged him back to the present. "No more games, Sherlock," John dropped to his knees by his friend, removed his cardigan and gently balled it up under Sherlock's head. "I'm calling an ambulance and you're going to hospital."

Sherlock's eyes widened and John's heart plummeted further as he saw real fear beginning to stir in them, all traces of the confident, calculating mind seemingly er ased. "No."

"Moriarty cheated when he had you shot," John tried to keep his voice calm, despite the thoughts whirling through his mind as he planned his next move. "I don't want to play this sick, twisted game. I'm not like you, Sherlock, and I'm not like him. I need to finish this." Something shifted in John's perception of the situation and clarity finally reached him; he knew his next move.

The phone rang again and this time John reached into his pocket, and brought the device to his ear with a steady hand.


	16. Chapter 16

"Well, aren't you the dashing hero?"

John didn't respond to the mocking tone. His priority was Sherlock. He'd listen to what Moriarty said, for now, but it didn't mean he was going to indulge him any further.

"Come on, John," Moriarty continued in a sing-song voice, "you know I don't like it when we're not talking. Let's be friends again."

"Look," John hissed into the phone as he gently smoothed damp curls back from Sherlock's forehead, "I don't even know what this is about anymore. What do Mycroft's actions have to do with any of this? There's nothing to solve – he told me what happened."

"No, Doctor Watson," Moriarty laughed loudly and John felt Sherlock shiver under his touch, "he told you what he thought happened."

John's hand stilled. "What do you mean?"

"It's brilliant, really."

"What is?" John gritted his teeth as Sherlock whimpered once more. God, he'd faced death and destruction before, but that tiny plaintive sound was so at odds with everything he had come to expect from Sherlock it shook him more than he'd care to admit aloud.

"I couldn't actually have planned it better myself. Well, maybe I could h-"

"Planned what?" John squeezed Sherlock's hand before standing and walking quickly into the other man's bedroom. He was still waiting for an answer as he caught the phone between his shoulder and ear, and hoisted the duvet from the bed. "Planned what?"

"Boo!"

It was only due to years of honing battle instincts that John didn't collapse in a tangled heap when the voice came, not from the phone, but from the kitchen. His eyes snapped up from where he'd been carefully ensuring he didn't tread on fragments of broken glass and he once more found the hairs on the back of his neck rising as he took in the scene before him. Sherlock still lay on the floor, eyes closed and trembling, but now Moriarty stood over him, smirking at John. Every nerve in John's b ody tingled in response to the sight of the gun the Consulting Criminal was pointing at Sherlock's chest.

"You really need to get a better lock on that door, John," Moriarty frowned pointedly, "anyone could just walk in off the street."

John let out the breath he'd been involuntarily holding. His eyes scanned the room quickly and with practised precision, looking for anything that could give him the upper hand. He calculated the possibility of him being able to lunge at Moriarty without accidentally killing himself or Sherlock; the odds weren't good. Fleetingly he noticed that his hands were completely steady, giving nothing of his exhaustion away.

"If you have any misplaced ideas about throwing yourself at me," Moriarty drawled, running his tongue along his top lip, "I'd save them until later."

John swallowed, still uselessly clutching the duvet to his chest. He caught movement in the corner of his vision and he turned his head slightly, still keepin g as much of his vision trained on Sherlock as he could. A man he didn't recognise was standing in the doorway to the flat, pointing another gun at John. John took in the man's stance and steady hand; if he didn't feel like he'd already gambled everything he had he'd have confidently wagered that he was facing a soldier.

Moriarty smacked his lips together and crinkled his nose into an indulgent expression. "I love a man who's punctual."

"Who are you?" John asked, voice perfectly stable.

The man remained silent and John watched as Moriarty grinned, his eyes glinting with a perverse joy. "My, my, aren't we all being rude. Sherlock knows all of us, and this is his home, so he should be the one to make introductions, really."

John couldn't stop his cry of horror as Moriarty delivered a kick to Sherlock's ribs. The detective's eyes snapped open before rolling without focus as his mouth opened in a silent scream.

John took a step towards him, duvet fi nally dropping to the floor, but Moriarty shook his head slightly, gesturing to the gun in his hand. "Be patient, John. You'll have him all to yourself very soon."

"John," Sherlock gasped quietly.

"It's pathetic, isn't it?" Moriarty sneered at his gun-toting companion. "I almost feel sorry for him."

John balled his fists and blew air out slowly through pursed lips.

"Reynolds." Sherlock's voice was little more than an exhalation of breath, but John heard the name as if it had been roared against his ear.

"You're Alexander Reynolds?" John reeled backwards slightly, eyes flicking between Moriarty and the other man. "He's Alexander Reynolds?"

"Well, more accurately he was Alexander Reynolds," Moriarty was beaming again, but John was horribly aware that he might lash out at Sherlock again, "but he's not been called that for a long time. Not since he was extracted from an embassy shooting. A hit ordered by - All together now?"

"Mycroft," J ohn whispered in unison with Moriarty's bark of the elder Holmes' name.

"Brilliant, isn't it?" Moriarty's eyes widened in glee. "John, I'm sure you've already heard of Captain Moran's impressive military record."

Sherlock let out a soft, keening sound and John didn't know whether to give his attention to his friend, or to the man who had been a legend amongst John's peers. "But Moran's dead," John chocked out eventually. "He was killed in action two years ago."

"No," Moriarty drew out the syllable, pouting as he did so. "He wasn't. Mycroft failed again."

"Wait," John forced down the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration, "Mycroft knew he wasn't dead."

It was Moran who finally answered. "Holmes always was a bit oblivious," his voice held none of Moriarty's psychotic-playfulness; instead he sounded impassive as his trigger finger remained pointedly steady.

Moriarty reached into his pocket and produced a small, plastic vial. "Th is is the antidote to the poison."

John's fingers tensed, clasping around air as he itched to reach forward and grab the solution.

"Oh, don't worry," Moriarty snorted, "I'm going to give it to you. But first you need to agree to my terms."

"How original," John spat.

Moriarty practically howled with laughter. "God, you're even funny when you're facing death."

John settled on a scowl as his only response. He was increasingly more concerned about Sherlock's breathing and couldn't afford to waste time on a verbal-sparring match.

"You can give him the antidote," Moriarty was aloof once more, "but it comes at a price."

John couldn't stop his chin from dropping to his chest, already guessing what Moriarty might offer up as the price.

"He lives," the Consulting Criminal grinned before pausing, biting his lip as if he was about to announce his grand finale (and John supposed he probably was). "He lives, but you have to die."


End file.
